


Something had to fall

by Queelsonmeals



Category: Dragon Quest XI
Genre: Dragon Quest XI Act III Spoilers, ELEVEN REMEMBERS ACT II, Eleven's just an angsty teen, Gen, I'll update tags as I go, IT'S FROM ELEVEN'S POV AND HE THINKS EVERYONE HATES HIM SO ALL THE PARTY R OOC I'M SORRY, You see if calasmos doesn't exist then Hendrik is never actually a part of the party, calasmos doesn't exist in this, i also use she/her pronouns for yggdrasil but only bc I'm an ix fan to the end, no romance but idk that might change, oh this is SAD btw, sylvia uses she/her, u can tell erik is my favourite character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:29:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29657577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queelsonmeals/pseuds/Queelsonmeals
Summary: Mordegon is dead, Erdrea is saved! The party doesn't need to stay together anymore. It's not like they've bonded over the course of their journey, at least not THIS journey. Eleven remembers a time when they were closer.(This is updating rlly rlly slowly don't get invested in it)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. I'm so full of teenage rage >:(

**Author's Note:**

> !!

They'd all been there for his coronation. By name, he became king, but Rab was to run the kingdom until he'd learned the basics of being a ruler. They’d left the castle for last in the rebuilding and it felt right for a king who wasn't ready yet to be crowned in the ruins of his throne room. The crown itself was still intact, heavy as the day it'd fallen from his father’s head. He couldn't look up or down with it on, he couldn't meet his friend’s eyes. 

It had been the party of the century, Eleven didn't make it to his room until the next evening. He didn't lock the door after himself. Nobody would dare enter without his permission, and he had no plans to give it. Later, there were remarks on how quiet he'd been, how detached from the friends he'd defeated Mordegon with. They put it down to him being tired, after all that defeating Mordegon he'd done. 

Gemma didn't leave Cobblestone much. He still missed her. He still prayed to the spirit of the mountain, even after all this time. He still wrote letters to her that he couldn't send, it doesn't become a king to beg for someone’s attention, even if that someone was his best friend in this world, even if he knew she would have kept them a secret. They were in the same cupboard as her charms, which had quickly been replaced with kinglier jewels. She didn't leave Cobblestone because she had found a meaning in rebuilding it, Eleven didn't leave his room much. 

Serena stayed in Dundrasil even after the coronation, helping Rab with the rebuilding. The two offered freedom to every criminal who made it to the city, provided they not disturb the peace. It wasn't the most conventional way of populating a kingdom, but while they weren't the only one looking for citizens, they were the only ones offering clemency. Serena also served as an ambassador to the rest of the world. She seemed like less of her own person than before, even when Veronica wasn't around. Not that Serena was around much either. Eleven didn't leave his room to see her when she was. 

Veronica had quickly tired of being a child. She spent most her time in Hotto, investigating how she'd lost her age, and the rest of it looking for a cure. She visited Dundrasil to see Serena and Rab every few weeks. Eleven didn't leave his room to be visited. 

Hendrik had followed in his ancestor’s footsteps, setting his sword down to (re)build Zwaardsrust. He kept the ruins as a reminder of what had been lost, basing himself at the Warrior’s Rest, a castle by name alone. Those who wanted to resettle, but were too afraid of Dundrasil’s outlaws, found their way to him. He was a protector of the weak. Zwaardsrust became a bastion, if not the last one. Why would he visit Eleven, they weren't friends. Eleven wondered if they had ever even been friends.

Jade quickly realised her father couldn't rule alone. Perhaps if Heliodor had been in better condition, but Mordegon had damaged the kingdom along with its king. She became his most trusted advisor, setting aside her weapons for another day. She exchanged more letters with Rab than anyone else, he was more of a father to her than Carnelian, after all. There was a pile of her letters in Eleven’s room, slipped under the door. 

Rab knocked on Eleven’s door every morning, to ask if he'd go on a walk with him. The lack of a response never deterred him. He'd had a slot installed in the door for food, Eleven would have starved in his room without it. The door hadn't opened since he'd first closed it. 

Sylvia’s first visit had started with a knock and ended with a deadbolt on Eleven’s door. Even that hadn't stopped her from playing tunes outside his room. She swore she'd heard him laugh once, when she missed a note. She hadn't heard anything else from him. 

Mia had written him a letter. She told him all about the adventures she and Erik had had on their world tour, and how well she was settling into L’Academie. The “and thank you for saving my life and all” at the end was in different, more familiar, handwriting, but only Mia had signed it. Eleven sent back a small note, “your tour won't be quite done until you see Dundrasil” and nothing else. 

Erik didn't visit. Eleven didn't leave his room. 


	2. Solitude !!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik visits, nothing else good happens!

The knock came on his door earlier than usual. It was quicker too, more urgent. None of this inspired him enough to acknowledge it. 

“Eleven?” That wasn't Rab’s voice. “Eleven, it's Serena, may I come in?” She spoke softer than usual, as if she didn't want to scare him. The door didn't budge when she tried it. 

“Eleven, would you unlock the door for me? It's important.” Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she'd just woken up, “Please?” Or as if she'd been crying. Still he didn't answer. 

He heard the rattling of cutlery as she slid his breakfast through the door. 

“I know it's earlier than usual, but you’ll need to eat now if we're to make it to Arboria in time.” He took the plate from her before it fell onto the floor. It wouldn't be worth cleaning up. 

“Why would I go back to Arboria?” His voice was hoarse too, but only from its lack of use, “have I not done enough for Yggdrasil?” He had no good memories there, only a drawing on his wall of Veronica’s staff, how it'd stood so lonely in that orchard. 

“It's not for Yggdrasil, it’s Veronica. At least go for me?” She had definitely been crying. He held the hand she slid through the door, but he didn't speak again. 

“She’s gone.” She had to leave before he could say sorry. 

Everyone had gone to the funeral. They'd been there for Serena as she mourned her twin. They mourned their friend. Eleven cut his hair for the first time in years, from the safety of his room. It felt cheap, like a mockery of the other Serena he'd known. She hadn't come back to Dundrasil. Someone else had, though, stowed away with Rab. Not the first time he'd stowed away.

“Eleven, you know you're a fucking asshole?” So  _ now  _ he visited. 

“She asked you to come. You're the only one she asked to come. The only one she had to ask.  _ ‘Have I not done enough for Yggdrasil?’  _ What about your friends, huh? You didn't save the world on your own. Veronica saved your life more than any of us.” If only he knew just how many lives she'd saved.

“And you haven't answered Jade’s letters, or talked to Sylv.” 

“ _ You _ never wrote me letters.” Eleven hoped he'd been heard, even though he barely whispered. 

“What was that?” He got no answer. 

“Fine. If you want to act like you killed Mordegon all alone, maybe you deserve to be all alone. Goodbye.” This wasn't his Erik, not by a long shot. He still walked the same, even away from the door. 

He might have gone to the funeral if he'd had a few days to prepare. He would have been there for his party, would have called them his friends. He knew that was a lie. It wasn't  _ really _ their fault, he hadn't tried to get closer to them, but they hadn't asked him what was wrong. He knew that was a lie too, they'd tried their best. He missed them, almost as much as he missed who they'd been. 

His hair was starting to grow back. He'd covered up the mirror months ago now, when he couldn't bear to see himself. He wondered what he looked like. He wondered what the others would have thought of his haircut. He uncovered the mirror, he covered it, he forgot it. It didn't matter what he looked like if nobody saw him. 

While Eleven rotted in his room, the world kept going. Zwaardsrust became more like the proud nation it’d once been. King Carnelian passed, he didn't go to that funeral either. Jade brought Heliodor to its former glory as the new queen. Erik was living in Cobblestone with Derk. Cobblestone itself had become independent of Heliodor, largely aided by Gemma’s efforts. Krystalinda finally gained Sniflheim’s trust. 

The Sultan of Gallopolis died. Faris had become more responsible in the years since they helped him with the Slayer, but he was still barely out of childhood, and in charge of a sultanate his father had bled dry on his parties. He relied heavily on his advisors, but he was doing better than anyone would have expected. Better than Eleven. 

Eleven heard all of this, and more, from Rab. He'd stopped inviting him on walks, instead he told him everything that was going on in the world. 

“You know, if you hate it here so much you should be thinking about going to Angri La. You missed out on going when you were a little one, but they'd be happy to train you up. It'd be faster too, seeing as you've already done some training of your own.” Rab didn't get an answer, but that wasn't anything out of the ordinary. There hadn't been a sound out of the room in the year since Veronica died. 

Eleven hadn't spoken, but he had been keeping himself busy. He ran himself through the same exercises he'd done every morning with Hendrik when he was a part of the party. Then, he drew as much of the world as he could from memory. He could never get the details of Serena’s hair right, it hurt his head to think too much of what had been. He read his father’s diaries while he ate. They were nothing alike. In the evening he ran as many laps of his room he could, then he walked until he couldn't stand anymore. He crawled into bed too tired to dream most nights. But sometimes, when even that didn't tire him out, he wrote letters. Mostly to Gemma, he wrote about everything he missed in Cobblestone, asked what he'd missed, how independence was going. He never got any answer, because he never sent any of his questions.

The first letter that made it out of his room was addressed to someone about as far removed from Gemma as Cobblestone was from Gallopolis. Still, he slipped it under his door and hoped it would find its way home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to kill Veronica I really really didn't but it's important to the Plot. Leaving this on a cliffhanger as if it's not in the tags already


	3. Roomrot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven has a penpal now!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story about growth!! Eleven misses how his friends grew during act ii, and now we're seeing how other characters have grown!!

_ Dear Faris, _

_ I was really sorry to hear about your father. I hope you're doing okay.  _

_ Eleven.  _

It was a little short. In his defence, he'd never written a letter before, and he didn't know Faris all that well. He’d just thought it'd be nice to reach out. The response that came back was much longer than anything he could have expected, certainly longer than necessary. 

_ King Eleven of Dundrasil, Luminary, Former Champion of the Grand National Races, Slayer of the Slayer of the Sands _

_ Thank you for your letter. One imagines it taxed you greatly to write such a heartfelt note, I’ll treasure it forever surely. How has Dundrasil treated you? _

_ Word is that you've become something of a recluse. I know they say the crown is heavy, but with a lord regent I can't see how much of that weight is on your shoulders. Of course, I would hardly know what it's like to be suddenly put on the throne of a nation in disarray, my father was incredible at his job. You've probably heard all the stories of his lavish parties. Clearly, you've no experience with politics or letter writing, so I'll give you some quick advice. _

__

_ First and foremost, you simply must address someone by their proper title, at least in your salutation. This shan't be too big an issue between us, as we are of equal standing, but you would do well to remember it in your future correspondences.  _

_ Second, you need to fill a letter with content. Your condolences warrant nothing but a “thank you” in reply, and I hate to think of someone making the journey between us for such a trivial thing. It's good to inquire after the health of your recipient, or those around them. You might also talk about yourself and any news you have.  _

_ For example, we recently had to close the castle’s stables. We sold all but two of the horses. This, as I’m sure you can understand, might have dealt a blow to our reputation as the capital of horse racing in all of Erdrea, had we not made sure to sell the horses only to our own citizens, who the races will now be open to. This will increase the revenue they produce, as now anyone has the chance to beat the sultan himself at his own game, and I've improved greatly since last we met, I won't be needing you as a stand in any longer. Perhaps we ought to race when next you visit.  _

_ Third, it does not befit a king to write his own letters, and unless your scribe’s handwriting is atrocious—in which case you might consider finding another—you seem to be doing just that. Personally, I consider this a needless frivolity, but I also know how to form my letters properly. _

_ I think relations between our nations have been good under your grandfather’s lead, but if you are to be king it will always benefit us to have a personal  _ and  _ formal relationship. As such, I await your next letter, with hope it will be better, or at least longer, than the last.  _

_ Regards, _

_ Sultan Faris Khan of Gallopolis, Champion of the Grand National Races _

Eleven might've been more insulted if Faris wasn't right. He  _ had _ let too much responsibility fall on Rab, who was only supposed to ease him into the role of king, rather than act as one. Faris didn't sound too upset over his father’s death, but it had been a while ago by now. A scribe sounded nice. He'd have to talk to Rab for that, though. 

Maybe the two did have more in common than he'd let himself believe. It was easier to isolate yourself when you thought you were the only one with a problem, but Faris was almost the same age as him, younger even, and managing a sultanate far larger than Dundrasil. But at least he'd known what he was doing, being raised a prince and such. The letter writing tips, Eleven largely ignored. 

_ Faris, _

_ Sorry my letter was short, I didn't know what to say. You're right, I have become ‘something of a recluse’, so I've no news for you in this letter.  _

_ Very exciting about the horses. I'm a little out of practice with riding, so I think we could be an even match.  _

_ I didn't get much handwriting practice between defeating Mordegon and covering for your shortfallings, so I'm very sorry if you're struggling to read my letters.  _

_ I hear Sylvia and her merry men visited Gallopolis. Did you see the show? Last time she visited she told me all about the new acts, something about a trapeze? _

_ Eleven.  _

He was very proud of that letter. Four paragraphs, a few nods to Faris’ (former) incompetence, even inquiring after Sylvia. Maybe some of the hours he spent drawing would be better spent writing letters he would actually send. Maybe. 

In any case, Faris wrote back, just as high and mightily as before. It was a nice change from the monotony of before, this new conversation. Not that he was looking for any huge life changes right now, he was perfectly happy to rot in his room. Rab, at least, was grateful that his grandson wasn't completely alone anymore. Though he still hadn't opened the door. 

Two years into his self-imposed isolation, Eleven’s routine had changed little. He’d quickly run out of clean clothes, but he was well used to washing his own after so long on the road. The bathtub even seemed a luxury compared to the scratchiness left behind by the salty sea. Sometimes, when he was feeling especially adventurous, he'd even hang the clothes from out his window. He never got to thank the servants who hung up the washing line for him after he first draped them over the balcony rail, but only because he hadn't seen them coming in the dead of night. 

It was from this balcony he'd study the gardens, drawing each flower and blade of grass until he could've filled an entire book with it. He'd have to ask Rab for more paper soon. The walls of his chambers were now plastered with his drawings. He thought it made for an interesting look. Even the bathroom was full of them, the mirror painted over with his best depiction of Mordegon’s fortress. Something that had never even existed in this world, only in the memories he held so dear, he could never be sure he'd gotten the colours right. 

_ I've included something new in this letter, if only to stop you from complaining it's too short. I can only imagine you've grown since, but you looked so small in the face of the Slayer that day that I would have helped you even without the promise of the rainbough. That's probably the Luminary instinct. I sometimes used to think it would make me a good king.  _

Faris in the drawing was just a boy, with all the weight of his people’s fear on him. That he'd ever even drawn his sword was a miracle. This Faris being on the throne was out of the question, so Eleven wondered who he was talking to now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm half convinced El's illiterate so I've just,, not edited any of his letters. Also it took me an entire hour to write Faris' letter bc I wanted to get the bragging just right.  
> I'm trying to update every two days, but don't hold me to that lmao. I'm on twitter @mealsonqueels if u want updates in real-time  
> Edit: yeah I won't update today I haven't started the chapter yet but I'll start now bc I'm out of class. The next chapter has actual plot in it though so there's something to look forward to in,, like anywhere from 2 days to a week


	4. Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven goes to Angri La!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a train wreck I'm v sorry but if I don't post it I'll lose all motivation

_ Sultan Faris Khan of Gallopolis, my friend, Champion of the Grand National, Slayer of the Slayer of the Sands _

Eleven still hadn't gotten into the habit of addressing Faris properly, but he thought that might give him a laugh. It'd certainly prompt a response. And, not that he'd admit it, it felt good to call somebody a friend again, after so long. 

_ I  _ do _ have news for you in this letter! You need to start sending your letters to Angri La, where I'm going to get the training I would've had as a child, if not for the whole Mordegon thing. Hopefully it'll go quicker, though, seeing as I've already got some training under my belt, Rab seems to think so anyways.  _

He wasn't particularly excited about going to Angri La, but he knew it'd be best for him if he did. If only to get out of his room for once. He was to leave the next morning, he hadn't packed. He didn't know what to pack. Angri La was all about giving up your mortal attachments or whatever, and he only had Faris right now, he would be given clothes once he arrived. He wondered if he'd have to shave his hair off, or at least cut it. He'd grown fond of it lately. Taking care of it gave him something to do, it was silky soft with how often he brushed it. 

There was nothing left for Eleven in Dundrasil. He'd drawn every building he could see from every angle he could look at it. He'd read every one of his father's diaries, twice. He'd learned to play a tune on the piano in the corner, entirely by guessing. He'd even studied sultanate law, from books sent to him by Faris. 

Faris, everything he did revolved around Faris. He woke up, checked if he had a letter, read the letter. He spent all day drafting the reply in his head. He could barely remember Faris’ face, and still it was clearer in his mind than any of the party’s. It was probably better than being all alone again, but he didn't think it was particularly healthy either. Every day he stood in front of the door, just to see if that would be the day he opened it, what would they say if he did? Would Rab be angry with him?

“He lives!” Rab wasn't angry with him. He was to go to Angri La later that day, but for now he was out of his room and in the castle proper, for breakfast. It'd improved since he last saw it. Then it had been a ruin, and now  _ he _ was a wreck. He sat at the table with his grandfather and said nothing. Rab offered the milk for his tea, he took it. Their eyes met. This was very awkward, Eleven felt he should've stayed in his room until it was time to go. 

“You should try the scones there, laddie, I don't think they ever made it up to your room.” He tried the scones, they were nice. Amber used to put raspberries in hers, these had raisins, he felt bad for preferring the raisins. 

“Are you packed?” He nodded. He'd filled a bag with notebooks and paints and pencils, thrown in a hat and coat for good measure. He didn't think Rab would approve of this, so he didn't show him. 

“I like the hair, suits you.” Rab was fumbling for conversation. It meant the world to both of them. Eleven didn't know why he couldn't just reply, tell him he loved the scones. He tried, he really did,

“Should I..” his voice was less than a whisper after so long without use. He mimed shaving his head. 

“I don't see why you should have to. I did, when I was a boy, but I don't think they’d've forced me to do anything.” Eleven nodded, Rab smiled at him. 

_ I'm glad you liked my painting. It was a little harder than I'm used to after so long just drawing plants, but the reference you provided was excellent. What’s the name of the cat in your lap? I'd love to meet the artist sometime! I like the new hair, it looks good on you, definitely better than your last haircut. I think drawing you is going to become a dangerous habit.  _

Angri La was nothing like he’d expected. He didn't have a room to himself, for starters, so no chance of that kind of isolation again. He'd never been there before, not this time. The High Lama didn't know him. Obviously, he knew his name, but he was surprised when Eleven knew his. Even more when he got around with no directions. Maybe he would've understood if Eleven told him the truth. Maybe Eleven should have. 

He had to cut his hair. It was too long not to get in the way while he trained. They said it would be okay as long as it was above his shoulders, but he shaved it all off anyway. He didn't want to be any kind of king here, he didn't want to stand out. His roommates didn't even know his full name. He thought it was going well with the giving up his mortal attachments, having already lost his name and his hair. 

He wasn't out of shape, but he  _ was _ out of practice. He ended every training bout on his back in the dirt. At least here there was always somebody to offer him a hand up, sometimes in Dundrasil he'd had to sleep on the floor of his room when his legs gave out and he couldn't make it to the bed. He still didn't talk much, but a nod was as good a thank you as any. The instructors gave him no rest and he was glad of it. He would stay in the ring until he could offer his opponent that hand up. How did he ever beat Mordegon.

“El, let's just go have dinner, we can go again in the morning.” He shook his head, 

“Go, then.” They were all used to his blunt words by now, more out of an unwillingness to speak than any anger. No, all of  _ El’ _ s anger was pointed inside. His partner didn't move from the sparring circle. He raised his staff again, Eleven raised his. 

The fight was over in seconds. He tripped over an outstretched foot, had been too focused on the staff that was now pinning him down. 

“You're not getting up unless it's to go have dinner,” Eleven just glared up at him in answer, “I can go all night, it's no difference to me.” Eleven didn't doubt it, but he didn't like his tone. 

“So can I.” This was very quickly turning into a staring contest. Eleven blinked, he knew he'd only lose that too. 

“So what'll it be? 

“What's the dinner tonight?”

“I don't know, probably stew.”

“You should go check.”

“You're hilarious,” He pushed the staff further into his chest, “you know, this is the most you've spoken since you got here.”

“Most I've spoken in about three years. You should consider yourself lucky.” He didn't dignify that with an answer. 

“One more, just for fun? I'll go inside even if you win?” He probably wouldn't, but he'd rather go inside than break his ribs doing this. 

“ _ One _ .” He offered Eleven a hand up. 

Eleven  _ lunged _ . Eleven missed. Eleven waited for a counterstrike. Eleven waited. Eleven spoke,

“Go on then!” He did nothing. Eleven tried to sweep his legs from under him, he jumped. Eleven aimed for his head, he barely avoided it. That sort of blow wasn't allowed. 

“I think you might win this one.” Eleven scowled at him,

“But you're not even trying!”

“If I was trying you wouldn't have stood up after our first bout.” Eleven jabbed at his stomach,

“What?” He sounded more upset by his partner not trying than he was about losing 50 rounds in a row. 

“I don't know why we got paired up, but I was told just not to let you win. They said it like it would be a challenge.” He looked like he regretted that as soon as it came out of his mouth. Eleven dropped his staff. 

“I forfeit, you win. Let's go have dinner.” He didn't look back as he walked away. 

Eleven didn’t even know his roommate's  _ name,  _ why had he thought he knew him at all. Of course he was there to babysit him. Everybody was  _ so _ worried about little El, he must be so torn up after all his little adventures with his little friends. 

“It's Bran. You talk a lot more when you're angry. I don't even know why I'm your partner, I'd hardly call it babysitting. Stew’s got carrots today!” He,  _ Bran _ , set a bowl down in front of Eleven and sat beside him. Eleven didn't acknowledge him, but he did try the stew. Carrots! He was trying his best to stay angry. 

“What adventures did you go on? I’ve never even left the mountain. Where are you from?” Eleven chewed his carrot, doing his best to look thoughtful. He was angry! Very angry!

“I'm from Cobblestone. It's not huge, but it's nice.” He  _ refused _ to smile at thought. Bran was full of questions, which wasn't unusual, but this time he was getting answers, which was. 

“Oh! Like the luminary! Did you ever meet him?!”

“No.” Eleven finished his stew without talking to Bran. 

_ Angri La is great! I’ve made a few friends and I'm improving really fast! They never stood a chance against Erdrea’s saviour. I might just have to move here full time and abandon Dundrasil entirely (that's a joke).  _

That wasn't really a joke, so he was so careful to say that it was. He still hadn't gotten anywhere near Bran’s level. Nobody knowing he was a king had been a relief thus far, but he was almost tempted to ask the High Lama for a change of partner, see if he could get away with any special treatment. He worried that that would just destroy the very last of his dignity. He still ran through his exercises every morning, before Bran even woke up. This was slowly killing him, because Bran woke up every morning and walked to the mountain’s peak to watch the sunrise. Maybe he was overworking himself, but the whole point of this training was to reach enlightenment through exercise, surely that warranted some extra effort. Eleven was tired. Everybody knew it, Bran said it, but still he refused to forfeit another match. He'd liked to have blamed his inexperience with a staff for his poor performance, but Bran beat him with every weapon available, even his own sword. 

“Why'd you come here?” Bran had formed a nasty habit of making conversation after knocking Eleven to the ground. 

“What, do you not think I'm good enough for it?” It was really only a nasty habit because Eleven was nasty when he was pissed off. 

“No, you're better than most newcomers, but you don't seem to be enjoying it.”

“What's there to enjoy? You just beat me up every day!” Bran offered him a hand up,

“So why'd you come?”

“Why’d  _ you  _ come?” He took the hand. 

“I was born here.”

“Why'd you stay?” Eleven  _ loved _ answering questions with questions, but he wasn't the only one who could do it,

“Why'd you change your name?” Eleven didn't answer that. 

“Again.” They raised their weapons. How did Bran know he'd changed his name? Was it the High Lama? Had Rab told him? Did he know his real name, or just that it wasn't El? While he was wondering all of this, Bran was knocking the wind out of him with a (barely) blunted sword. He (barely) kept his footing, going for his own blow that Bran (barely!) sidestepped. Eleven could barely lift the sword anymore, they'd been at this for hours.

“Surrender.” They both knew he wouldn't. Bran didn't lift his sword again, barely moved except to avoid Eleven’s attacks. Eleven was dragging his sword on the ground by the time an audience had formed. No crowd, but every eye in the place was on the fight, each thinking they were subtle about it. 

“Hit me!” Bran only looked at him in silence, “Go on, I can take it!” Eleven closed the distance between them until hitting him would take only a twitch of Bran’s wrist. Bran stepped back from him,

“That doesn't mean you should have to, El. I surrender.” He walked back inside without another word. This was becoming another dangerous habit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to name Bran that's why that paragraph is so clunky ejdksjjdjd anyways yeah I think these'll be coming out once a week max but! They will also be longer! Also el's bald now

**Author's Note:**

> Boohoo we get it u miss Hendrik leave ur fucking room bestie


End file.
